Some Roundabout Papers | Page 7

the caves and
waters before men were made to slay them. We who lived before
railways are antediluvians -- we must pass away. We are growing
scarcer every day; and old -- old -- very old relicts of the times when
George was still fighting the Dragon.
Not long since, a company of horseriders paid a visit to our
watering-place. We went to see them, and I bethought me that young
Walter Juvenis, who was in the place, might like also to witness the
performance. A pantomime is not always amusing to persons who have
attained a certain age; but a boy at a pantomime is always amused and
amusing, and to see his pleasure is good for most hypochondriacs.
We sent to Walter's mother, requesting that he might join us, and the
kind lady replied that the boy had already been at the morning
performance of the equestrians, but was most eager to go in the evening
likewise. And go he did; and laughed at all Mr Merryman's remarks,
though he remembered them with remarkable accuracy, and insisted
upon waiting to the very end of the fun, and was only induced to retire
just before its conclusion by representations that the ladies of the party
would be incommoded if they were to wait and undergo the rush and
trample of the crowd round about. When this fact was pointed out to
him, he yielded at once, though with a heavy heart, his eyes looking

longingly towards the ring as we retreated out of the booth. We were
scarcely clear of the place, when we heard "God save the Queen,"
played by the equestrian band, the signal that all was over. Our
companion entertained us with scraps of the dialogue on our way home
-- precious crumbs of wit which he had brought away from that feast.
He laughed over them again as he walked under the stars. He has them
now, and takes them out of the pocket of his memory, and crunches a
bit, and relishes it with a sentimental tenderness, too, for he is, no doubt,
back at school by this time; the holidays are over; and Doctor Birch's
young friends have reassembled.
Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple mouths to grin! As the
jaded Merryman uttered them to the old gentleman with the whip, some
of the old folks in the audience, I daresay, indulged in reflections of
their own. There was one joke -- I utterly forget it -- but it began with
Merryman saying what he had for dinner. He had mutton for dinner, at
one o'clock, after which "he had to come to business." And then came
the point. Walter Juvenis, Esq., Rev. Doctor Birch's, Market
Rodborough, if you read this, will you please send me a line, and let me
know what was the joke Mr Merryman made about having his dinner?
You remember well enough. But do I want to know? Suppose a boy
takes a favourite, long-cherished lump of cake out of his pocket, and
offers you a bit? Merci! The fact is, I don't care much about knowing
that joke of Mr Merryman's.
But whilst he was talking about his dinner, and his mutton, and his
landlord, and his business, I felt a great interest about Mr M. in private
life -- about his wife, lodgings, earnings, and general history, and I
daresay was forming a picture of those in my mind: -- wife cooking the
mutton; children waiting for it; Merryman in his plain clothes, and so
forth; during which contemplation the joke was uttered and laughed at,
and Mr M., resuming his professional duties, was tumbling over head
and heels. Do not suppose I am going, sicut est mos, to indulge in
moralities about buffoons, paint, motley, and mountebanking. Nay,
Prime Ministers rehearse their jokes; Opposition leaders prepare and
polish them: Tabernacle preachers must arrange them in their minds
before they utter them. All I mean is, that I would like to know any one
of these performers thoroughly, and out of his uniform: that preacher,
and why in his travels this and that point struck him; wherein lies his

power of pathos, humour, eloquence; -- that Minister of State, and what
moves him, and how his private heart is working; -- I would only say
that, at a certain time of life certain things cease to interest: but about
some things when we cease to care, what will be the use of life, sight,
hearing? Poems are written, and we cease to admire. Lady Jones invites
us, and we yawn; she ceases to invite us, and we are resigned. The last
time I saw a ballet at the opera -- oh! it is many years ago -- I fell
asleep in the stalls, wagging my head in